


In the Bath

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Ridiculousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2013-01-27
Packaged: 2017-11-27 04:40:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/658104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Um, Sherlock? Why is there an otter in the bath?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Bath

**Author's Note:**

> Written for imjustjohnlocked's prompt "Um, Sherlock? Why is there an otter in the bath?" for the Johnlock Grab Bag Challenge. I don't even know what this turned into. Hope you enjoy it!

Two, beady black eyes stared at John from the bath. John wasn’t quite sure if it was male or female but made an unconscious decision that the little beast in the bath was, in fact, male; how else could he explain how ruffled the little creature seemed to be by being disturbed. He could have sworn a dark look came across the furry face when he had entered. A look that John was far too familiar with but usually graced the face of a certain long-legged detective.

“ _Oh, I’m sorry, have I bothered you_ ,” John thought sardonically.

A furry, brown body leisurely lay in the tub filled almost to the edge, water splashing onto the tile with every small wave the creature created.

John had just got home from surgery when he heard small splashes coming from the bathroom. He had smiled, it was a rarity but every so often Sherlock enjoyed a bath, clothed or not (John found him once, long legs spilling from the porcelain tub, fully clothed and texting). Eager to join his friendpartnercolleagueboyfriend—they hadn’t chosen a term yet, or rather they didn’t feel the need to—John stripped off his coat, toed off his shoes, and quickly padded into the washroom.

What he had been expecting was 6 feet and two inches of wet, pale skin and a full grin (or dark scowl).

This was not what John received (apart from the dark scowl).

This also brings us to where John is now, having a starting contest with a brown, furry otter floating in the bath.

He slowly and carefully stepped towards the bath, imperceptibly moving towards the creature and trying—in vain—not to startle it. Catalogs of information began being ticked off in his mind, ridiculous courses he had taken, projects from primary school: _Are otters dangerous_? _Do they often break into flats_? _Do they know how to use the tap_?

A step too close and the animal flipped on his front in the tub and with an undignified yelp, John turned and ran out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him. There was a small, odd sound, but silence resumed, no doubt the animal basking in its sudden peace.

John has learned many things while living with Sherlock, some things that he would rather not know to be honest. He has also learned quite a few things about himself as well; he is not as high strung as he had originally thought, he was also not entirely straight (but that’s a whole other story). John also became aware of an amazing ability, one he was sure he had received from his mother but was awoken once Sherlock came into his life: John was incredibly gifted in the subtle are of _ignoring_ things. He always could ignore the little things (missing mugs, a scratch on the table) but he quickly found he was rather adept at ignoring larger things as well (missing firearms, a head in the fridge—the trick is to not look directly at it, grab the milk and get the hell out of there). Maybe John had always had this seemingly meaningless ability; perhaps he had just never noticed it. He sure as hell noticed it now because with ignorance comes silence and if there is one thing that drives Sherlock mad, it’s silence.

Now that’s not entirely true but give us a chance. There are a hundred different silences; silence at night with just a few cars passing by, angry silence, sexual tension-filled silence, comfortable silence, silence of the mind, and so on and so on. Sherlock enjoys silence as much as the next person but he does not, repeat: _does not_ , like silence when it excludes his own centerpiece genius.

The first time it happened, John could hardly contain himself. He remained stoic and unassuming but inside he was cartwheeling and laughing maniacally and high-fiving his _own_ goddamn genius. Sherlock had come home in a flurry of movement like he always did; throwing his coat here, tossing his scarf there, sometimes texting, other times talking directly to John (Sherlock comes _in_ the flat talking the John, god knows what he must look like on the street or in a cab).

It is during these little opening numbers that John usually decided whether he was going to mention the head in the fridge/ears in the microwave/six carcasses of ceramic mugs spread in pieces across the counter.

John usually mentioned it—how could he not—but on a calm, grey Tuesday afternoon, after an awful shift at the surgery, he found that he didn’t really care what horrible concoction his flat mate had stirred up in the kitchen today. He looked, of course, but when Sherlock returned home several hours later, John just didn’t mention it.

Sherlock was in a tizzy over some preschool teacher who had not felt “comfortable” letting him observe the children (“How else am I supposed to work out whose father it was? I’m brilliant but not _magic_!”). He was going on for a long while, John humming and nodding in the correct places, until suddenly he stopped. Silence. Not entirely unusual save for the fact that Sherlock was still actually _in_ the room.  

John peeked over the top of his laptop where his friend was standing awkwardly in the entryway to the kitchen, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

The tension was palpable, but not the kind that was equally received. Sherlock looked like a child waiting to be shouted at, his eyes darting towards John every few moments. He cleared his throat as the doctor turned back towards his computer. John ignored him.

“Oh for god’s sake, just get it over with.” John sighed, closing his laptop. He laced his hands together on the desk and sat patiently. “Get _what_ over with, Sherlock?” He was being cheeky now and he knew it, better yet, Sherlock knew it.

“Please, John, even you had to have notice the mess on the table.” Sherlock pulled his scarf from his neck, pushing his coat off his shoulders as he began his daily routine of tossing his clothes all over the place. “I’m using the plasma, I lifted from--.”

“It’s fine.” John said, rubbing a hand across his face, still frustrated after his shift at the hospital. “It’s really fine, Sherlock. Just do what you need to do.” That should have been the end of it.

It wasn’t.

Sherlock didn’t respond, didn’t move, and when John finally lifted his eyes, Sherlock looked a bit insulted but quiet.

John had done it. That sudden thought shot a spark of guilty pride coursing through his body. He felt a bit cruel but he also felt honored, as well.

You see, Sherlock came home at night and told _John_ about the experiments, about the cases, counted on John to shout at him for making a mess of things, he counted on John for consistency, attention, normality. As much as he craved his own wild lifestyle, Sherlock needed something to ground him, something to hold onto. Something to call home.

It was at this moment that John thought maybe, _maybe_ , this “sociopath”, maniac, genius had found that home through him—a sad, lonely army doctor. It took a moment to process this, sort through the feelings and push past the sudden heart-clenching, too-sweet taste in his mouth.

Of course, once realized, John did what any mild-mannered Englishman would do.

He exploited it.

John, noticing the tension in the room through silence ignored him, absolutely refused to acknowledge that anything was wrong. It lasted the whole of two minutes before Sherlock began shouting, John, losing his own self-control, began shouting as well, and that was that. Sherlock was annoyed and John found a neat little trick to get his flat mate, as stated before, _annoyed_.  

This is all just an ambiguous way to say that John had a big decision to make about the otter in the bath. (That otter is still there, by the way; throughout that whole, long story of John’s newfound ability; the otter lay in the bath, playing with a few plastic cups.)

Does John ignore the otter or does he jump right out and say it. This could go either way, each option dangerous and exciting in its own regard.

There have been many things in the army doctor’s lifetime that has had him second-guessing and none more than Sherlock Holmes.

Speak of the Devil.

The door gave a warning click as the knob was turned but instead of the usual cacophony of sound that usually followed, Sherlock strode through the doorway, silent and (dear heaven, help us) mild-mannered.

The familiar palpable tension radiated from Sherlock when he knew he had done something unusual or “John may shout” worthy. The silence was filled with unasked, god-awful questions, “Is he going to say something? Does he know?” John made a hearty decision to ignore it.  

Nothing was said for a long while. Pleasantries were made between the two, chaste kisses, John made tea and updated his blog while Sherlock grumbled to himself and peered through his microscope in the kitchen. It was so sickeningly “normal” that John almost forgot that there was, in fact, a mammal in the bathroom. He _almost_ forgot.

“I think I’ll have a shower.” John announced, shutting his laptop. Sherlock lifted his head from the microscope, eyebrow raised.

“Thank you for that startling declaration.” His dark baritone mumbled. John narrowed his eyes as his flat mate bowed his head and continued what he was doing. “ _Oh, he’s good_ ,” He thought.

Sherlock didn’t stir, peered at John from the lengthy silence and signed loudly, rolling his eyes when John didn’t move from the couch.

“What? Do you want my permission? Go on and take your shower.” The detective shook his head in annoyance and continued his work. John, determined and, now, a bit pissed, looked passed Sherlock. Just inside that room a little brown fur ball lay in the bath. How far did John want to push Sherlock, because now, oh, now this was a game. Who would crack first? The army doctor stood, chest pushed out, because he was not giving in.

“Alright, need anything from the bathroom before I jump in?” John slowly made his way to the room, taking a moment to brush his fingers through the soft curls just above Sherlock’s ear. The detective leaned into the touch, his eyes closing for a moment before shaking his head.

John frowned, removing his hand. He was getting angrier now. There had been arguments about Sherlock’s tendency to treat everything as an extension of himself. When John had first moved in he had been much more lenient about it, the flat had been more Sherlock’s than anything. Now, though, things were much different concerning the flat, the state of things, and even their own relationship with each other. John was quite frankly getting tired of being the last one to know about experiments left in the fridge and “Oh, by the way, we’re going to Edinburgh tomorrow,”.

It was partly John’s fault too, let’s be honest, because he was enabling this behavior, constantly picking up after Sherlock, soothing irritated clients, making everything _better_. It was okay, it was fine, but after a while he began to feel more like a babysitter than a companion.

He had shared these thoughts with Sherlock just a couple weeks before. The two of them tangled around each other, sharing soft words under the sheets, John had mumbled his concerns against a pale shoulder. Sherlock had actually listened too, apologized with soft kisses and by the next morning, John waking up far into the afternoon, the flat was clean and experiments were labeled and kept on a separate shelf. John had smiled and wrapped his arms around the slender man who was whispering threats to a very slow coffeemaker.   

Things were good, of course, until today when—

“Sherlock, I thought we talked about this,” John crossed his arms, leaning against the kitchen counter.

“What did we talk about, John?” Sherlock stood from his chair and whirled around to face John, a hip pressed against the wooden kitchen table.

“This! The sneaking around with experiments, the surprises coming home from work. It’s not that I want you to stop, I would just like a bit of warning.” John paused, was going to continue but the bewildered look on his friend’s face took the words from his mouth.

“John,” Sherlock stepped to the side and waved an arm over the table, highlighting his microscope and petri dishes that spread across the wood. “I thought I made it quite clear that I’m working on a small experiment.”

“I didn’t mean this one, you git!” John shouted.

“Then would you let me know which one you _are_ referring to.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. He was being cheeky now, John fumed, “ _Fine_ ,” he thought, “ _I’ll spell it out for him._ ”

"Sherlock? Why is there an otter in the bath?"

There was an unexpected silence from Sherlock.

“What?”

As if hearing the conversation, there was a small squeak and a rather large splash from the bathroom. John nodded in the direction of the loo, a hand on his hip and more than ready to let the groveling commence.

“What in the hell was that?” Sherlock asked, uncrossing his arms and looking wildly into his room.

“No, you’re not getting out of it that easily. How long has that poor creature been in there anyway? Jesus, Sherlock, I hope no one knows you’ve taken it. That’s all we need, an animal rights organization writing all sorts of vile things about--.”

“John. What in the _hell_ is in the bath?” John looked up and did not expect to see Sherlock still looking quite confused. But John wasn’t going to be taken in that easily, oh no, not this time. The doctor stood as tall as he could and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Sherlock,” He said sternly, “Why. Is. There. An. Otter. In the bath?” Sherlock’s eyes widened and he bolted towards his room. There was a click, a door opening, and a short yell. The detective ran back into the kitchen.

“John, there’s an otter in the bath!”

“Yes, I know. Why is it the--.?”

“An otter!”

“I know but-.”

“In the bath!”

“Sherlock!” John cried, “I am very aware of what is in the bath. Now, why is it there?” Sherlock had the audacity to look appalled.

“You think I put that…that _thing_ in there?” John, once again, paused. Sherlock’s face was flushed, his breath erratic, and he was clenching John’s jumper with both hands.

“Wait,” John put his hands over Sherlock’s shaking ones. “Did you…did you really not know that there was an otter in the bath?”

“Of course, I didn’t! Why on Earth would I bring a bloody beast in the flat?” John rolled his eyes.

“Well, it wouldn’t be the first time that you brought something—hang on.” John took in the distressed look on Sherlock’s face and had a small flashback of his own childhood, when he had been terrified of clowns (a fear that followed him into adulthood, I’m afraid).

“Are you scared?” Sherlock ripped his hands from John’s jumper.

“Of course I’m not scared, don’t be ridiculous. I am just,” Another squeak from the bathroom and a flinch from Sherlock. “I am just not partial to otters. I had a rather negative encounter with them when I was young—this is Mycroft!” Sherlock was suddenly shouting. He walked angrily into the sitting room, finding his mobile and viciously texting his older brother, no doubt.

“Care to fill me in?” John asked, unfazed or just dizzy from how wrong he was about the whole thing, how he should actually apologize to Sherlock, and how in the hell were they going to get an otter out of the flat without Mrs. Hudson finding out.

“I refused a case of his yesterday.” Sherlock explained, still concentrated on his phone. “It was dull and was only to further Mycroft’s position in the government. I didn’t think he would go so low as to ‘scare’ me into taking the case. Oh, just wait until he returns home from Spain next week.” Sherlock forcefully pressed send, a disconcerting grin crossing his face.

“As long as it doesn’t contribute or contain death, I am all for it.” John sauntered forward, placing apologetic hands on his friend’s cheeks, pressing his dry lips to soft, full ones in a chaste kiss.

“I’m not going anywhere near that room.” Sherlock said quickly, his cheeks flushing. John grinned, eager to hear _that_ story, the tale of his “negative encounter”. Maybe later once the doctor had apologized with his heart, hands, and mouth, would Sherlock share that tale with him.

“That’s fine, love. I’ll go call the Environment Agency.”


End file.
